Week #35 - Rod Ross
Title: Fractured Fairytale
Word Count: 903
Rating: T
Characters: Rod Ross, Mello, and mentions of Matt
Summary: Four glimpses into the life and thoughts of one Rod Ross
Dwight Gordon was born to an average mother, and to an average father who disappeared and of whom no inquiries were asked (the cops had been watching, the informant bad, and the bridge was falling down, fair lady). His mother told him fairy tales, old nursery rhymes and stories of Grimm that had been watered down to the beautiful princesses, talking animals, white knights and happy endings. But Dwight was an only and ugly child, and woodland creatures didn’t live in LA. Talking animals would have fled from the glint of steel in his boot.
Dwight’s favorite stories were ones where sorcerers transformed into dragons, shedding their pale and sickly bodies for powerful and fire breathing incarnations. And when it was time for the white knight to pierce the dragon’s heart he would pretend to be asleep until his mother would abruptly end the tale. She would smooth his hair (black as ebony, already showing a deep widow’s peak not quite white-as-snow), and he would dream breathing fire on the neighbor boys who played in his playground. Still, he tucked the white knights into his mind too. Just in case.
When his mother’s body finally gave in under the spell cast upon it, teeth a brown and congealed mess in the bleeding gums and skin raw with sores and pus (an old woman, her body worn and leathery as a shoe), Dwight thought only a moment before the proper course came to him. He burned the building down (ashes, ashes).
From the ashes of the amphetamines and its victims rose Rod Ross.
Mello fit all wrong into the scheme of things, the blonde haired damsel in a lair of ogres and demons. Rod Ross laughed at the boy, high atop his treasure trove of firearms and gold (and he always dressed in white suits, for no one would slay a white knight). Mello had the last laugh, carrying a trophy of the vanquished mob boss (cut off his head with a carving knife, and probably licked off the blood).
Rod Ross most often stood back after that, and let Mello peer into the oracle inside his mind to deduce the actions of their enemies, explaining with chocolate in hand what would benefit their little operation (mirror, mirror, and who was still alive to be fairer?). He held the plans together; pulling the threads of fear (fate?) within the group so that no one commented when he disappeared, or reappeared smelling of cigarette smoke instead of chocolate and leather. It was Mello who made the golden plans, captured Death for them and brought it to heel.
Mello took the childhood fairy stories and turned them inside out, a wicked sorceress who masqueraded as a golden beauty. He was an Alice who stepped into Wonderland with the clear intention of outdoing the Queen of Hearts. Or perhaps Oz might be better, given that he brought with him a dog in goggles and stripes. However the lost boy came to them, he wasn’t lost for long, just as ruthless from a drive to win as any hardened criminal (little Bo Peep, chasing after a genius sheep).
Like any golden treasure, Mello also brought them to ruin.
If only Kira wasn’t so bad for business, Rod Ross sometimes thought, he might admire the guy. Hell, the cold and ruthless efficiency with which Kira had taken down the FBI (all a part of the mythos now, as supposedly top secret as it had been to begin with) was the stuff of dreams. Imagine, all the back stabbing slime gone in one fell swoop. But then there was always the mournful thought spared for how it would mean missing the bewildered look on the victim’s face as they realized too late how things would end. And working in the “business” of arms, there were so many creative ways to go about things.
Kira’s weapon was almost a disappointment in the vein of fantastical weaponry. Simple sheaves of paper bound together and protected by a leathery cover (and though it was rough and cold it was just vaguely reminiscent of flesh - or maybe scales). The more he stared at it the more he realized what a deceptive thing it was, not unlike Mello, slim and all bound up in its leather. He felt a rush spread from the tips of the fingers that held the pen that wrote the names that murdered the useless (that lived in the house the mob built). It was good business to pass of the burden of spent life to another, less useful man.
In his heart Rod Ross thought of the notebook as his own.
Near their final hour they sat upon their treasure, not gold or jewels but power of Death itself, and surely Kira wouldn’t find them (your name, is it Rumpelstiltskin?). And Rod Ross felt no fear for one brief second. He was not a dragon but a knight triumphant, a sword in Kira’s ideology of eliminating criminals. Here was power, and wealth, and beautiful women at his beck and call. He who is the last standing is always the winner in fairytales, the cleverest and best child alive to make their way back home. And Mello assured them that it would be fine (told a crooked tale, the wretched crooked child).
When the first chest pains began, Dwight felt the terrible knowledge of not being the fairest in the land.
Word Count: 903
Rating: T
Characters: Rod Ross, Mello, and mentions of Matt
Summary: Four glimpses into the life and thoughts of one Rod Ross
Dwight Gordon was born to an average mother, and to an average father who disappeared and of whom no inquiries were asked (the cops had been watching, the informant bad, and the bridge was falling down, fair lady). His mother told him fairy tales, old nursery rhymes and stories of Grimm that had been watered down to the beautiful princesses, talking animals, white knights and happy endings. But Dwight was an only and ugly child, and woodland creatures didn’t live in LA. Talking animals would have fled from the glint of steel in his boot.
Dwight’s favorite stories were ones where sorcerers transformed into dragons, shedding their pale and sickly bodies for powerful and fire breathing incarnations. And when it was time for the white knight to pierce the dragon’s heart he would pretend to be asleep until his mother would abruptly end the tale. She would smooth his hair (black as ebony, already showing a deep widow’s peak not quite white-as-snow), and he would dream breathing fire on the neighbor boys who played in his playground. Still, he tucked the white knights into his mind too. Just in case.
When his mother’s body finally gave in under the spell cast upon it, teeth a brown and congealed mess in the bleeding gums and skin raw with sores and pus (an old woman, her body worn and leathery as a shoe), Dwight thought only a moment before the proper course came to him. He burned the building down (ashes, ashes).
From the ashes of the amphetamines and its victims rose Rod Ross.
Mello fit all wrong into the scheme of things, the blonde haired damsel in a lair of ogres and demons. Rod Ross laughed at the boy, high atop his treasure trove of firearms and gold (and he always dressed in white suits, for no one would slay a white knight). Mello had the last laugh, carrying a trophy of the vanquished mob boss (cut off his head with a carving knife, and probably licked off the blood).
Rod Ross most often stood back after that, and let Mello peer into the oracle inside his mind to deduce the actions of their enemies, explaining with chocolate in hand what would benefit their little operation (mirror, mirror, and who was still alive to be fairer?). He held the plans together; pulling the threads of fear (fate?) within the group so that no one commented when he disappeared, or reappeared smelling of cigarette smoke instead of chocolate and leather. It was Mello who made the golden plans, captured Death for them and brought it to heel.
Mello took the childhood fairy stories and turned them inside out, a wicked sorceress who masqueraded as a golden beauty. He was an Alice who stepped into Wonderland with the clear intention of outdoing the Queen of Hearts. Or perhaps Oz might be better, given that he brought with him a dog in goggles and stripes. However the lost boy came to them, he wasn’t lost for long, just as ruthless from a drive to win as any hardened criminal (little Bo Peep, chasing after a genius sheep).
Like any golden treasure, Mello also brought them to ruin.
If only Kira wasn’t so bad for business, Rod Ross sometimes thought, he might admire the guy. Hell, the cold and ruthless efficiency with which Kira had taken down the FBI (all a part of the mythos now, as supposedly top secret as it had been to begin with) was the stuff of dreams. Imagine, all the back stabbing slime gone in one fell swoop. But then there was always the mournful thought spared for how it would mean missing the bewildered look on the victim’s face as they realized too late how things would end. And working in the “business” of arms, there were so many creative ways to go about things.
Kira’s weapon was almost a disappointment in the vein of fantastical weaponry. Simple sheaves of paper bound together and protected by a leathery cover (and though it was rough and cold it was just vaguely reminiscent of flesh - or maybe scales). The more he stared at it the more he realized what a deceptive thing it was, not unlike Mello, slim and all bound up in its leather. He felt a rush spread from the tips of the fingers that held the pen that wrote the names that murdered the useless (that lived in the house the mob built). It was good business to pass of the burden of spent life to another, less useful man.
In his heart Rod Ross thought of the notebook as his own.
Near their final hour they sat upon their treasure, not gold or jewels but power of Death itself, and surely Kira wouldn’t find them (your name, is it Rumpelstiltskin?). And Rod Ross felt no fear for one brief second. He was not a dragon but a knight triumphant, a sword in Kira’s ideology of eliminating criminals. Here was power, and wealth, and beautiful women at his beck and call. He who is the last standing is always the winner in fairytales, the cleverest and best child alive to make their way back home. And Mello assured them that it would be fine (told a crooked tale, the wretched crooked child).
When the first chest pains began, Dwight felt the terrible knowledge of not being the fairest in the land.